The Melting Pot
by esteed
Summary: Emma turns on the heat and Steed begins to melt. R/R!
1. Default Chapter

Mrs. Peel walked in her favorite wine store. "What's new, what's new," she muttered. Seeing a likely choice, she walked over to a bottle and picked it up, reading the label aloud, "Chateau Mrs. Peel? How can that be?" She whirled around looking for a certain bowler hatted gentleman.  
  
Steed stepped out from a stack of champagne bottles, "We're needed," he completed the familiar phase.  
  
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A man sat, melted, in a chair. Mrs. Peel walked around the eerie sight. "Name of the deceased?"  
  
"Frederick R. Whitley," Steed answered. "Head of Counter-Counter Espionage."  
  
"One of them?"  
  
"One of us," Steed informed her. "He defected to this side more than a year ago."  
  
"Could 'they' have exacted revenge against the unlucky fellow," Mrs. Peel queried.  
  
"Well, that could have been possible," Steed admitted, "If only two other gentlemen hadn't been murdered. Ones with no ties whatsoever to Mother Russia."  
  
Mrs. Peel sighed. "Any idea of how this happened?"  
  
"The agent guarding him claims that he was out of the room for only a minute, heard no strange noises, no screams, and saw no signs of a sruggle."  
  
"Interesting," Mrs. Peel mused. "Perhaps we should,"  
  
"Go talk to the agent," Steed asked with a smirk.  
  
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Steed's antique Bentley pulled up in front of a plain-looking apartment building. "Here we are," Steed announced, as they got out and walked to the door. "The flat of one B. Boris Barker." Steed rang the bell with the tip of his umbrella. "Strange. He doesn't seem to be home."  
  
"And why is that strange?"  
  
"He's been confined to house arrest since his charge was mysteriously murdered," Steed informed her. He rang the bell one last time, before resorting to more drastic measures. Bunching his fist up inside of his tie, Steed smashed through the window beside the door, sticking his hand through to unlock it from the inside. The door opened to reveal he half-melted body of B. Boris Barker in his kitchen.  
  
"Looks like someone had the same idea we did," Steed murmured.  
  
"Four men dead in less than a week," Mrs. Peel mused. "What's the connecting thread?"  
  
"Someone obviously didn't want us to interrogate B. Boris Biddle," Steed stated. "But he couldn't have been a double agent."  
  
"Or could he," Mrs. Peel countered. "I know that the Ministry makes each agent go through rigorous tests, but how often are the agents tested?" Steed shrugged. "I suppose only at the beginning of their careers." He sniffed. "Mrs. Peel, what is that vile stench?"  
  
Mrs. Peel breathed deeply. "It smells like something rotten."  
  
Steed inhaled again. "It smells like burnt rubber."  
  
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Steed and Mrs. Peel walked out of Biddle's flat. "Strange," he mused.  
  
"What is," Mrs. Peel questioned.  
  
"Well, B. Boris Biddle should have had a guard outside his door-where was he?" Preoccupied with this thought, Steed bumped into a short balding fellow. "Brodney, hello!"  
  
Brodney flinched, his eyes darting around, looking for an escape route, and settling on Mrs. Peel. He gulped, remembering their last meeting-he still had scars. "Hello, Steed, M-mrs. Peel."  
  
"Now, Brodney," Steed laid a hand on his shoulder and guided him beneath a tree. "What are you doing here? The last I'd heard, you'd been sent back to Russia."  
  
"Didn't even get to see the Beatles," Mrs. Peel cut in.  
  
Brodney looked nervous, "Beatles? W-why w-would I be interested in insects?" He laughed feebly.  
  
"Brodney, you always told me you loved British music much better than that stuffy Tchaicovsky."  
  
"D-don't be silly," Brodny replied looking around, checking around for suspicious characters. "He's my favorite composer."  
  
Steed looked confused. "I was certain you preferred John Lennon."  
  
"N-no. No!"  
  
"Oh well, my mistake." Brodney nodded, and began walking away. Steed steered him back around. "So, what are you doing here?"  
  
"Wh-what am I doing he-visiting an old friend."  
  
Steed and Mrs. Peel exchanged glances. "What was his name," Mrs. Peel questioned.  
  
"What was who's name? Oh! My friend.his name was.umm."  
  
"B. Boris Biddle," Steed queried.  
  
"Yes, yes, that's," Brodney paused, looking stricken. "That's not it."  
  
"But just a minute ago, you seemed so certain, Steed persisted.  
  
"It was a mistake," Brodney assured him. "If you would excuse me."  
  
Steed and Mrs. Peel watched him go. "What do you really think he was doing here," Mrs. Peel inquired.  
  
Steed shrugged. "Maybe one of us should,"  
  
"Follow him?"  
  
"Glad you volunteered," Steed smirked and jumped into his Bentley, roaring off. Mrs. Peel glared at his retreating form. 


	2. Chapter 2

Mrs. Peel collapsed, exhausted, onto her sofa. If she hadn't known the Russian better, she would have suspected that he had been leading her on a wild goose chase.  
The telephone buzzed loudly, and Mrs. Peel groaned loudly before picking up the receiver. "Hello, Steed," she sighed.  
  
"Mrs. Peel, glad you're home," he answered. "Now, what did Brodny do today?"  
  
"How long do you have," Mrs. Peel retorted.  
  
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Brodny walked into the Russian Embassy, glancing nervously around. Spies always made him nervous; rather ironic considering his chosen career. He knocked on an unmarked door, which opened just wide enough to admit Brodny. He squeezed through.  
  
"Where the devil are my effects," a very British voice demanded.  
  
"I could not get them," Brodny admitted, trembling. 'Steed and Mrs. Peel were already there. I'm so sorry, Mr. Biddle."  
  
B. Boris Biddle snorted. "Steed, eh? Probably followed you."  
  
"Oh no, I would have noticed Steed," Brodny hastened to assure him. "He's not very subtle, and he stands out in a crowd."  
  
"Probably had Mrs. Peel follow you, then."  
  
Brodny looked indignant. "Oh no, it is not possible. All right," he amended. "It is possible, but, yes it's possible and probable." He paused, then realizing what he said, he hurriedly added, "Not probable that I didn't notice her. No, that is definitely imp-"  
  
Biddle looked disgusted. "You're excused Brodny."  
  
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"So Brodny went all over the city yesterday?"  
  
Mrs. Peel nodded. "He went to a clothing store, and a tea shop, and a department store." She paused, deciding to try a little bit of trickery of her own. "Maybe he should be followed again, today. There may be some clue that I overlooked."  
"Knowing Brodny," Steed sat down on the couch next to Mrs. Peel, "And knowing you as well as I do, I very much doubt it. While you were racing all over London, I dug up some information."  
  
"And," Mrs. Peel questioned, curling her legs up towards her body. "How are the men related?"  
  
Steed smirked. "All of the men killed, with the exception of B. Boris Biddle, were involved in Secret Project X."  
  
"Secret Project X? Wasn't that the one where-"  
  
"No," Steed cut her off. "That was Project 90."  
  
"Oh yes. Well then, what was Secret Project X?"  
  
"It was a program testing Einstein's theory of space."  
  
"You mean the theory that you can rumple space up like a rug and jump over the wrinkles," Mrs. Peel raised an eyebrow.  
  
"Exactly. There are six more scientists involved in the project who are still alive."  
  
"And Frederick R. Whitley," she questioned.  
  
"As head of Counter-Counter Espionage he had to make sure 'they' didn't get hold of what we were doing." Steed thought for a moment. "I believe he fed them some line about x-ray contact lenses."  
  
Mrs. Peel gave Steed an innocent look. "And I suppose they never existed in the first place?"  
  
"Can't tell you that," he answered. "Hush-hush." He turned to leave. "Shall we go check out the first scientist on the list?"  
  
Mrs. Peel nodded, reluctantly rising from the sofa. 


End file.
